Can't
by May Glenn
Summary: When Sam comes back from his tour in Hell, Dean has to look after him, because Sam just can't. AU tag to Swan Song: how Sam's return could have happened. T for strong language in Chapter 2.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I haven't posted anything in a good long while, so just so's you know I ain't dead, here's a little plotless H/C AU for **_**Swan Song**_**. I like my Winchesters to come back from Hell broken and bloody and a little traumatized, not just sorta **_**there**_** the way our Sam came back, so I wrote a different way it could have ended. Could maybe add to it if any interest, but otherwise it's just a quickie to let y'all know I'm still alive and kicking! **_

…

_No, Dean, don't! You sonofabitch, haven't you died for me enough? Leave me!_

"Sam! Sam!" Dean's voice was commanding, but cracked with worry. His brother lay naked and broken in his arms, and until a few seconds ago, wasn't moving. Not that what he was doing now constituted as _moving_, anyway. He was just tense, trying to move but completely unable to, from pain, weakness, or fear. Rather, _and_.

But he was here now. Dean was here. Sam had to know that, he had to feel safe now, because Dean _never_ let anything happen to him. It was okay now. Well, as okay as it was ever going to be, after what they'd been through.

"Sammy? Sammy, it's okay, man, I gotcha. You with me? You here with me, Sammy?" But Sam only flinched away as Dean tried to smooth bloody, sticky hair back from his face, whining like a frightened child. "Sam, I'm right here. I got you now, you hear? _Sam_?" His voice was involuntarily going Winchester-marine, the voice Sam hated at the best of times, and Sam attempted to curl away from him, tears streaming silently down his face.

With an effort, Dean controlled his tone, suddenly gentle, speaking to Sam the baby: "Sammy, it's me, Sammy. It's Dean, yeah? 'Member me? I'm here. I got you, Sammy."

"You can't, Dean." Sam was bawling openly, deliriously, weakly pushing against his brother.

Okay, at least that answered the question of whether Sam knew who he was with or not.

"Sam, don't worry, I got you. I'm taking care of you now, you're safe, bro."

But this hardly helped Dean determine with any certainty what was wrong with his brother. Well, yeah, okay, _hell_ was wrong with his brother, and that wasn't something you just got over, but still. Why was Sam still fighting? He was out now. He was safe. Didn't he know that? Didn't he know Dean had his back now, and would die to make it all right?

"Please, Dean, don't do this…" Sam choked. "You can't, please."

"Don't do what? Sam, you—"

Then Dean stopped. Like a switch flipped in his brain, he was back on Sam's wavelength: Sam wasn't thinking about _himself_. That great brain of his was well into overdrive trying to figure out how Dean could have gotten him out of Satan's clutches without drastic measures. Not that his second-hand soul would have done anything, but there were other ways, more desperate ones. Sam was thinking about Dean, worried for _him_.

_Now_ Dean knew what to say. "Oh, no, no, no. _Hey_. Hey now, Sammy, don't worry, man. We're both okay, yeah? I _swear_ to you, I'm here. I'm gonna be right here when you wake up, Sammy, safe and sound. We are _both_ okay, you understand me?"

The sobs were subsiding, and Dean took this as encouragement. He heaved Sam's shuddering form up against his chest and carded his hand through his hair. Sam's breaths were shaky, but at least he seemed to be trying not to cry anymore. He was still twitching, too, but background, as if he was trying to relax and his body was just responding slowly to the order. Dean knew, more than anyone, that the only thing worse than hell itself was knowing your brother was going to go there. In the scheme of things, Dean thought Sam was handling this pretty well.

"Yeah, Sammy, right here. Not gonna let you go," Dean continued his firm assurance. "Be right here when you wake up, Sammy."

"P-promise?" Sam's voice was so weak it wouldn't have withstood a stiff breeze. But it held everything in that one word, every ounce of strength and coherence he had left gathered into it. Everything hinging on the answer.

"Yeah, dude. I promise. Now you wanna try to relax for me? I got you, okay? You just gotta try and rest for me."

Sam nodded faintly and coughed. Tears had carved white streaks through his blood-and-dirt smeared face, but he was stilling.

"Okay, well let's get you on the bed, yeah? Comfier there."

Sam did not object to being so manhandled, but his body, wracked with pain, certainly did. Sam actually cried out in agony as Dean lifted him, as Dean hadn't heard him do since he was a kid, which promptly dissolved into coughing and more tears.

"Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry, man. Easy, easy, breathe through it," Dean coached once he'd gotten Sam to the bed.

"D-Dean," Sam finally managed, when he could breathe. A twitching finger managed to close around some sort of fabric which his desperate brain connected to his brother, a lifeline. "C-can't…"

Can't believe you're here.

Can't see.

Can't feel anything.

Can't move.

Can't breathe.

Can't _think_…

Sam's breathing was ragged, becoming frantic. Like a good Winchester, "quit" wasn't in his vocabulary, and even after such an ordeal he wasn't about to let himself go down until he was _sure_ it was safe. And being unable to—_can't_—do anything for himself, well, that wasn't safe by any definition. Dean pulled him closer to his chest, touching his face with his hand, trying to bring him around, to connect him with reality. "Sammy. _Sam_. It's all right, man, you don't need to worry about it. I'm taking care of everything. You don't need to do anything, man, just rest. Just rest easy, I'm looking after you, okay? You hear me?"

Sam managed a nod, squinting in pain. "D-dee'," he moaned miserably.

"I know it hurts, Sammy, just try to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up, okay?"

"'Kay." It was less than a whisper, but Dean was near enough to hear it. And then Sam quit, allowing Dean to take over. Because he _could_.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Importantly, smishes and thanks to **_**shesamonster**_**, **_**kirallie**_**, **_**speckled girl**_**, **_**stylish-kid-in-the-riot**_**, **_**samgirl19, Sylvie91, **_**and **_**Menthol Pixie **_**for encouraging me to continue this! Encouragement can never be underestimated.**_

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't profess to own. Please don't sue.**_

_**Warning: Strong language, about par for the course for the way I write angry/scared/pained Winchesters.**_

…

_He sold his soul. Dean sold his soul to get me out._

—_No, that was last time._

_He let the Devil back out. No way of opening that cage to get me out without setting Lucifer free too. _

—_No. No, no. NO. Dean was a lot of things, but he wasn't desperate and he wasn't dumb and he was living his apple pie life with Lisa and—_

_Okay, which Dean are you talking about?_

"Dean!"

One second, Sam lay nearly catatonic on the motel bed, all but dead beneath Dean's ministrations as he worked to put his brother's hell-torn body back together, and then suddenly—_bam!_ Awake, and panicked. That was Sammy, all right. All or nothing.

Now, Dean considered himself well-schooled in dealing with Sam and his nightmares, as this was primarily his task from age four onwards, but Dean could already tell that this was about to make his experience look like swimming in the kiddie pool.

Sam shot upright, knocking the needle with which Dean had been repairing a viciously precise gash in Sam's abdomen out of Dean's hand. Immediately Dean's focus shifted from needle to brother, and he grabbed Sam by the shoulders, alarmed by how much blood gushed out of the wound he had just been about to begin stitching. Kid hadn't been out more than two hours: just enough to recharge his batteries for this outburst, Dean was sure, biding his time until the _really_ sensitive job of stitching up a gut wound was begun, because he always had friggen stellar timing.

"Whoa, whoa, Sam. Easy, it's me. It's Dean, I'm here. You're out, remember? You're outta there, and I gotcha. We're still good. Still good. Go back to sleep."

"Dean, please, don't, you can't—how did you?—" Sam was pawing at the air, trying to grab hold of Dean, but either his brain wasn't sending the command properly, or his hands weren't responding, because his fingers never found purchase. Dean took hold of Sam's hands firmly, locking them in his against his chest. Miraculously, they stilled at this, though he also whimpered rather pathetically.

"_Damn_ it, Sam, we'll talk about this later. You need to rest. I need to finish stitching you up and then we need to rest."

Sam was doing the sidelong suspicious glare at him, like he did when Dean was avoiding getting in touch with his feelings or had been surfing when he should have been researching. Glad at least to see Sam hadn't forgotten the bitch-face during his time on the inside. But beneath all that he was very definitely in a lot of pain and not totally there, and that was what drew Dean's attention, so he continued talking until Sam started listening:

"I _swear_ we'll talk about this in the morning. Probably a few mornings from now, but you gotta trust me on this."

…

Sam wasn't shell-shocked enough to not understand that simple command: _trust me._ God, wasn't that all he had ever wanted to do, ever since Dean had first come back from hell? Trust Dean. And yet he hadn't, he had convinced himself that somehow _he_ was the big brother now, and salvation rested on his shoulders. Look where that got him? Sam couldn't imagine why Dean even _wanted_ his trust anymore, but damned if he wasn't glad that he still did.

Sam nodded distantly and felt his body going lax a few seconds before he gave the order for it to do so. There was a hand behind his neck, guiding him back to the pillow, and Dean's leg was warm where it pressed flush against his chest. Dean was here, safe. Now without him to worry about, Sam's brain went back to the earlier priority of trying to process the fantastic degree of agony he was currently in. Immediately all the circuits backed up. He took in half a sharp breath and tensed, so consumed by hell-fiery pain that he was barely able to feel Dean's hands on him anymore. He forced his eyes open, just to make sure, but he couldn't see, and might almost have begun crying at this if Dean's voice hadn't broken through to him just then:

"Hey, Sammy, it's all right, dude. Breathe through it for me, okay? I'm here, I'm gonna fix this, you hear me?" Apparently Dean didn't care whether Sam could hear him or not because he just continued his litany without waiting for a response. "I'm gonna put you out, okay, Sammy? Gonna give you some of the good stuff. Help you sleep. Don't worry about going to sleep though, 'cause I'm here, I got watch."

Dean deserved something, so Sam tried to nod, managing a faint twitch, able to add a "'Kay," that was barely audible. Sleep sounded heavenly right now. Sleep would help him forget, would abate the pain for a while, sleep would _let him rest_.

…

Dean wasn't sure he started breathing again until Sam's gasps evened out into medicated unconsciousness.

_Okay, that's it._ Dean ran an exasperated hand over his face. This was definitely the last time Dean was going to ever let Sam come close to making his own decisions or doing anything remotely adult-like or independent. There was just no way Dean could handle the stress. He simply could not stop thinking of himself as Sam's big brother, as being responsible for him. Sam could grow up, sure, become an adult and make his own decisions—good or bad—but no matter how old he got he would _always_ be Dean's little brother. And Dean would always be responsible for him. Indirectly responsible for all those good and bad decisions.

For fuck's sake, Sammy had been to _hell_, and that was literally _the_ _last_ thing in the known cosmos that Dean ever wanted to happen. Knowing exactly what hell meant only made it worse: he would have vastly—okay, maybe not quite vastly, he still remembered hell, and he wasn't a masochist—preferred himself back in that pit than Sam setting one foot in it for one minute. Because, ultimately, Sam was his responsibility. Always. Period.

…

Something filtered in through Sam's unconsciousness, prodding him awake. He blinked, owlishly, seeing only light and dark. He heard faint humming, murmuring, maybe voices, probably Dean. He didn't feel much of anything except a dull, background ache, and he really wished it'd stay that way. His brain also felt sort of blissfully numbed: he remembered where he had been and the horrors he had experienced, but this was an objective knowledge, without any feeling attached to it. That sounded vaguely unhealthy, in terms of the long run, at least, but right now he was glad of it.

"Nnughn."

"Wow. There's a show-stopping oration. Wanna try again, Sammy?"

"Fffffuck-uk…y-you."

"There's my boy. Now you gonna answer my question or not?"

So Dean had been talking to him for a while, then.

"Nnhuh?"

"Yeah, you know what, never mind. Vetoed. Here. Drink."

Okay, dumb question, Dean. Of _course_ he was thirsty. Sam gulped the water at his lips, slowing down only when Dean threatened to take it away if he drank too fast.

"Wh-where?" he asked, when the water was gone. Dean was wiping the drops of water from his chin, and for the first time since he was two, Sam didn't care.

"Safe," Dean replied automatically, only in a fit of magnanimity adding, "Motel. Uh. Detroit."

There was something scary he should remember about that place, only Sam couldn't think of it right now. Nor could he dredge up the energy required to be scared.

"Hhhhhow?"

Dean stopped whatever he was fussing with and looked Sam in the eye for the first time. It was only now that Sam realized he could see, although the world was significantly blurrier than he remembered. "I said I'd tell you later, Sammy," he said, a smidge harsher than was necessary.

"'S later, innit?" Sam replied juvenilely.

Judging by the surprised gleam in Dean's eye as he raised the related eyebrow, Sam guessed that the playfulness he had felt had managed to show through.

"Dude. You." Dean spluttered. "Look, no. I don't even know how you're doing yet, and I think that's top priority right now."

"M'fine," Sam slurred, hoping he didn't sound as doped as he felt. "I—" then a twinge of reality broke through, and he knotted his brow. "Y'know. Better. Kinda…scared." Sam knew that he had to be honest with Dean before Dean was going to be honest with him. And, deeper in his little-brother heart, where a little friendly manipulation went a long way, Sam was also sure that if he was honest, Dean was _obligated_ to be honest with him in return. "But ok-kay now. Hurts. A bit. But okay."

"What hurts most?" Dean asked, wishing he didn't have to ask: it was hard to chose between broken limbs, surgical gashes, second-degree burns and general misery that covered every inch of your body and soul.

"Uh. My head. Brains."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, I bet. You should really get some more shut eye, bro. I ain't going anywhere."

Okay, so much for the honesty theory. "Nnnooo." Unadulterated whining was the last resort, but was as absolutely sure-fire as the puppy-dog eyes. "Talk first."

"Dude. Your eyes are looking in different directions. You should _not_ be awake now." Dean's voice was rough and rude, but the concern showed in the gentle touch on top of his head, fingers in his hair.

"Talk," Sam growled, attempting to be demanding but it coming out only petulant.

Now Dean almost laughed. "All right, all right. I'll give you the quick version. Then sleep?"

"Then sleep," Sam agreed, relaxing back into the welcoming bed for story-time.

…

"_I can't, Dean."_

"_You brought Bobby back okay."_

"_This is different. I'm sorry, Dean, but I just can't."_

"_Can't or won't, Castiel?"_

_Castiel was taken aback by the use of his full name, but he steeled his jaw. "Can't," he confirmed. "Your brother is—"_

"_Bull_shit_, Cas. Bullshit. You've been reinstated—hell, friggen _promoted_—by the Big Guy Himself and you expect me to believe there's something you can't do?"_

"_Dean, my jurisdiction is such that—"_

"Fuck_ your jurisdiction! He saved the _world_. He saved you, me, everything we stand for. You can't bend a few rules to bust him out?"_

"_Even if I could, your brother is—"_

"_You didn't seem to have any trouble pulling _me_ out, and I deserved it much less."_

"_Your case was different. Your brother is in a secure level of—"_

"Don't_ say it." _

_God, it was worse than _being_ there. The world felt like it was closing in on him, suffocating him. Dean had thought, for a few fleeting days before the Apocalypse, when it felt like the entire world rested on his shoulders—he thought _that_ had been a heavy burden. But _nothing_ compared to the knowledge that his baby brother, his charge, his Priority One was slow-roasting in the deepest, blackest pit with Lucifer himself as cellmate was—God, it was killing him. _

_Desperate times called for desperate measures._

_Castiel saw Dean's Zippo ignite, but before the confusion gave way to realization, the flame had fallen, and he was already engulfed in a circle of holy oil. Trapped._

"_Dean," Cas ground out, voice impatient._

"_Castiel," Dean replied, with equal venom._

"_Think of what you are doing."_

"_Oh, I know what I'm doing. I'm looking after my brother. I know you can get him out, and, thanks to this holy moltov I'm holding, I can pretty safely bet that now you will."_

_There was a long silence. Castiel wasn't about to let himself be threatened by a human, but Dean wasn't giving an inch._

"_You know what this means, Dean Winchester." _

"_I have a vague idea."_

"_You and I no longer understand one another." Deep down inside where Castiel felt a bit human, still, this hurt. "This means you have placed yourself in opposition to me. Any friendship we may have had is dissolved."_

"_I don't care if it fucking means _war_, Castiel!"_

"_As you wish."_

…

"Dean. 'S'not funny."

"And I ain't laughing."

"You declared war on _heaven_? For _me_? Are you insane? I'm not—no one's worth—"

"Don't even bother saying it, Sammy. I know, all right?" Dean sighed. "Look. Neither of us have great track records when it comes to making decisions when the other one's not there."

Sam huffed, considering, as Dean locked his gaze, his eyes saying things that neither wanted to say out loud, things like _sold my soul_ and _demon blood_. "Yeah. That's about right," he wheezed. The pain was resurfacing, pretty steadily, but Sam managed a grin. "God, you're a moron."

"Hey. Saved your ass."

…

THE END

…

_**A/N: And having come full circle with Dean saying "saved your ass" a la the Pilot episode, I'm gonna call that a wrap. Apologies to Cas fans, because I imagine not everyone was as pissed off at him for the end of Season Five as I was, for the reasons mentioned above in Dean's dialogue. Hopefully in the actual show Dean won't have to burn any angel-human-relations bridges. But I'm positive that if it was for Sammy, he totally would.**_


End file.
